One Year
by lucia marin
Summary: Four seasons, four conversations, four decisions.......a four part Literati (R/J) story,detailing four beautiful moments in a progressing relationship from friendship to love, and then beyond.....
1. Summer

Hey everyone, back with a vengeance. Although I'm taking a little break from Crash and Burn due to lack of inspiration, I've been busy on a series of vignettes that I've put together in a story. There'll be four chapters, one for each season; each chapter will by definition be an important conversation between Rory and Jess set in that season, sort of like four life turning moments. Each one is not dependent on the next; it's a pretty interesting concept. Anyway, I hope you enjoy...thank you all who reviewed, I have much love for you. Thanks to Angel Grace for accepting my stuff to Proud and Prejudiced, and here's hoping you'll consider this one too.... :-} and to other talented authors, emrie, coralfly, columbiachica, denise, stewpid (nice transcripts, very true to the show), mrs.witter, fectas, nate (paris fan), the crack bunnies on fanforum (thanks for Literati; couldn't have asked for a better name), and many others I forgot.....

This story is Literati; all you ffnet writers, jory is not a ship. it's not a name. It's unmentionable and absolutely just can't be used.......please, let's stick to LITERATI! long live jess and rory.

disclaimer; characters not mine. are you shocked?

enjoy.

luce

She's grown used to the smell of cigarette smoke; her mother never has, but she tolerates it now as long as everything goes directly into the washer after these encounters. It's still not pleasant, but it's grown familiar. He blows rings and curls that he bestows upon her slender fingers; she slides them on and tries them for size, admiring the more delicate ones.

It's dark outside, and they sit on her porch steps. Along with the need to hide disappeared the need for the privacy of the bridge. From inside comes the faint sound of television and the muted notes of Lorelai's voice she talks on the phone. The two figures on the front steps sink back into the warm summer night, as their voices drift into the darkness.

"Then, that's when they'll hook you up the iron lung and you'll spend the rest of your days studying the ceiling," she finished resolutely, and looked at his amused face.

"Would you like a drag?"

Rory sighs in frustration.

"Does none of what I say make any sense to you?"

"About as much as Ayn Rand. That woman has serious issues." Jess grins, flicking embers like fireflies into the night.

"She's a serious writer," retorts the girl.

"I think she just needed to get laid," he says, and instinctively ducks the small palm that seeks scolding retribution.

"God! Is that your answer to all life's problems? Feminist writers had a reason, a passion behind their thinking! Betty Friedan, Gertrude Stein......"

"Or they weren't getting any. Women get pretty disgruntled about that kind of thing......."

She snaps a few blades of grass off the lawn and throws them at him sourly.

"Chauvinist," she spits.

"And quite nonchalant about it," Jess sighs, feigning bored sophistication. She giggles.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Ah, I see you doubt me." he smiles. "Have I proved otherwise?"

"I recall a certain moment of weakness when you admitted you've delved into Jane Austen, and should you deny it, I have Paris to back me up, so hah. You don't fool me. You're soft, Snuggle soft, Downy-"

"All right," he interrupts, cutting off her playful tirade. "Does that make me less of a man? Cause I'd like to let you know, I have all the proof that all my faculties are in place," he grins suggestively.

Rory reddens prettily, and looks away. Chuckling to himself, he grinds his stub into the ground and chucks it into a nearby bush. He lights another one.

"Do your lungs feel any blacker or is it just me?" she suddenly asks, unable to resist.

"Does it ever stop?" he sighs, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Do you ever stop?"

"Only when my mouth is busy doing other things," Jess leers again, and she quiets.

"You know, you're a freakin' Salinger novel when it comes to cigarettes," she remarks, and he laughs, relenting, beaten.

"You're positively right, I think he's influenced me for the worse. I swear, do they ever stop smoking in any of his works? No wonder being prolific wasn't his thing. His characters probably died of emphysema before he came up with a new story for them."

"That's why he wrote short stories," Rory giggles, and they both roll their eyes simultaneously.

"Is this the end of the discourse for now, professor?" he queries, innocently looking up at her. She frowns.

"For now, my little James Dean prototype. You know, he smoked, and he died pretty young."

"Due to a car crash."

"Maybe the accident was due to the fact he was having problems breathing," she retorts.

"Or maybe it was just the accident that did it," he counters wryly.

Defeated, she commences to ripping grass blades and throwing them.

"Mowing the lawn by hand?"

"Yeah well, I considered my other options, but I can't find my nail scissors and I already brushed my teeth," Rory quips, earning a rare smile.

She studies his clean cut, angled features in the molted gold porch-light that fades into the night; shadow and light contrast in different planes, hiding his lips. She feels hungry to kiss him, and politely refrains.

"So, I leave you alone all summer with Ayn Rand and you accomplish nothing. What have you to say for yourself?"

"The first one was bad enough. The rest of the time, I was busy finishing my credits that I failed for this school year......you'll be proud to know I'm graduating in our class."

"Knowing you, you won't show up to graduation," she says dryly.

"Only if I find a prank beautiful enough to be worth watching from the front row," he grins.

"Glad I don't go there anymore."

"I can picture your graduation; everyone in black Armani and Chanel, holding martini glasses that are permanently attached to their hands by the superglue of stereotypical imagination. I'm guessing there won't be any air horns or bells," Jess says.

"Highly unlikely," she agrees amusedly. "From my limited experience with Paris, I just picture a lot of nannies. Which reminds me, have you thought of applying?"

"What? Hot wax? Myself to my academics? Duct tape to Taylor's mouth?"

"To colleges, and stop evading the question." she commands quietly.

He takes a deep breath, losing interest in his cigarette; it joins a myriad of others in the ill fated bush. His mood is now pensive, and she can sense it. She thinks about kissing him again, and banishes the thought. She doesn't want to ruin a good conversation.

"Have I thought about it, yes. Have I done anything..........well......"

"Jess......" she sighs, frustrated.

"Rory," he mimics, then looks away, troubled.

"I sent some letters and stuff in. I took the SAT," he says quietly, startling her.

"And what did you get?" she breathes, impatient, tense.

"Perfect on verbal. 600 on math."

"Oh my God." 

She looks at him incredulously, and shakes her head, murmuring to herself.

"I can't believe I had to tutor you at some point? Was that a joke, a ploy?"

"Nah, I could've used it. Too bad the damn pesky "I trashed your car and broke your wrist and then skipped town and didn't come back till too late" thing got in the way," he replies sarcastically.

"You're never gonna let it go, will you. Can you ever forget it? I already told you I never blamed you!" she says hotly, a faint flush on her cheek. She hovers on the edge of anger. "And why didn't you tell me about the SAT's? Your scores? What's the mystery, Hitchcock?"

"Nothing, Holmes! It was just a damn test!" he says sharply, then, checks himself.

Silence.

"I'm sorry," he begins softly, and looks over. Her hair hides her face like a curtain; she's not speaking. "I didn't exactly want to make a big deal. I don't know how it happened. I got a letter back or two, Berkeley and Dartmouth.....it doesn't matter, ok?"

Still no reply.

"What're you mad at me for?" he bursts out impatiently, careful to control his tone.

Rory whips her head back, and her cheeks are pink. Her eyes are cloudy with emotion.

"Nothing," she says, and her voice sounds queer. She won't look him in the eye.

"I was considering Berkeley," he mentions carefully, watching her reaction with eagle eyes.

She startles strangely, a tiny movement he catches but she's not even aware of.  
"Fine," she replies, rather flatly. She plays with a strand of her hair, tugging it in an almost nervous way.

"Glad you think so," he says absently, giving up.

She suddenly stands up, eyes flashing. Her mouth twists quickly, then bends into a semblance of a smile that she can only hold for a second before it crumbles. He stands up, and faces her, hands clenched at his sides.

"Can you just spit it out?" he demands, but it's not a command; it's a plea.

"I don't want you to go," she suddenly says, her tone trembling the slightest bit. It comes pouring out as she rambles, trying to erase the bare, naked emotion in her first statement. "I wanted to know exactly where you were going cause I didn't want you to go, that's all? You know, ...? I, ok, I was kinda hoping maybe I'd see you around once in a while, bump into you accidentally on a street in Boston, have coffee, maybe sex, or something, you know, like a bad Danielle Steel episode? Maybe when I called it wouldn't have to be long distance because then I'd have to get a calling card and I always lose cards, that's why I don't have a credit card, cause I know I'll lose it, and that's why my mom taped my driver's license to the dashboard because I'll lose it, and-"

He cuts her off with a kiss that steals her breath and leaves her lungs shrieking as her blood speeds through her body at blinding speed, and she comes alive. She tastes the soft and rough, the sweet and smoke of his mouth, and tips unsteadily forward into him. He secures her, gently holding her trembling body.

"Were you serious about all that?" he murmurs, after he gasps for air.

"Except maybe the Danielle Steel thing," she breathes hard.

"I thought as much. What is this all about?" he asks, genuinely wanting to hear it from her lips. He's pretty close to happiness, as he's so rarely met it he can sense it when it races through him, approaching.

"I just don't want you to go away forever," she says, and her voice is unsteady. Her head droops like a wilted flower to his shoulder, burying itself in the soft gray of his t-shirt.

He strokes her hair.

"Afraid you might miss me?" he jokes gently, thanking fate, kismet, God, Bhudda.....Allah......

"To death," she chokes and her head suddenly snaps up. Her damp eyes study him piercingly. "What about you?"

He gives her one incredulous stare.

"Do you even have to ask?" he says, his tone pure ridicule. She bites her lip and hangs her head to hide a small smile.

"You tricked me."

"How? I plead completely not guilty." he grins.

"Tricked me into telling you this. You did it on purpose. I hope your guilt gnaws away at your lungs."

"Not my heart?"

"Lungs would finish you off quicker since they're already half fried." she says tartly, managing a half tragic smile. 

"Makes for tastier gnawing,"

"This conversation officially makes no sense now. You sidetracked me on purpose," she says crossly. "You made me spill.....ugh......I changed my mind. Go to California. I hope the LA smog works your lung overtime too."

"You sure you don't want to put this on a card?" he teases gently, enveloping her in his embrace.

"You're a terrible person," she whispers into his shirt.

"I know," he sighs, trying hard to feel remorseful. It's hard, with her peppermint mouth still on his mind.

He lifts her chin, and finds his way back to her. The kiss is slower, more measured, more forgiving......his touch is gentle, unnerving, restrained.............

She sighs into his mouth, and he just kisses her sweeter, harder. Her small hands wander the contours of his back, his stomach......

"I can't believe you tricked me." she breaks off, grinning.

"Will you get over it?" he groans, running his hands through his hair, then grabbing her again, and touching foreheads. "I had to. You'd never admit it."

"Oh, so you were sure I felt it in the first place?"

"I gave you the benefit of the doubt."

"You're a brave man, Jess Mariano," she declares, shaking her head.

"And you're a transparent girl, Rory Gilmore."

"Don't make me give you my death glare."

"Oh, here we go again."

"You know what this means, don't you. You've crossed into uncharted territory....."

"I'll refrain from any lewd comments." he laughs, and receives a roll of the eyes.

"Thanks," she says dryly. "I meant it's safe to assume you're no longer just my harmless friend."

"Not if you want to bump into me and have coffee then sex in the near future." he grins, unable to resist a dig and a chance to watch her stutter.

"Ugh! It was just a literary cliche! A, a, completely unthunk phrase that slipped!"

"Freud would have many comments on that last sentence," 

"Were you planning to channel him?" she menaces, furrowing her eyebrows daintily.

"Not if the lady doth protest," Jess replies meekly.

"Good, then, kiss me again," she whispered, and he complied willingly.

The summer night stood still around them as they found each other, vulnerable, wanting for a moment that hung suspended in time.

"All's well that ends well....." he murmured, and slipped his hands through her hair.

"It's just the beginning, " she replied, and took his hand. "Come inside for a bit? It's getting chilly."

He walks up the steps with her, and takes a breath, then enters. Behind them as the screen door bangs shut, the night stands still witness, sweet, warm, and slightly smoky with the smell of a million realized dreams.

Thanks for reading, Literati shippers. I humbly ask for a little feedback....drop me a line....write me a note.....if you got the time.

luce


	2. Fall

Well, what can I say. It's been a long year. Thanks to many of the faithful fans, and to all those still writing me. I am not writing anything new, but I thought it was pretty inconsiderate of me to leave all this written material for the unfinished stories unpublished………plus I have some spare time now that it's summer.

So here's the next piece to the four part seasonal ficcie. There is a possibility that Crash and Burn will finally be completed…….if anyone is interested, let me know.  Props to emrie, oregano, proud and prejudiced, columbiachica, and all those ppl out there still writing good literati, as well to all the people on the fan forums. This is the sad end of a good thing………..

luce

It's fall now. The summer conversations are over……..her flustered confession still lingers between them. It's their secret for now, below Lorelai's detection. They smile and pretend they are friends, hands entwined beneath tables, fingers tentatively touching……..but people see.

It's a small town, smaller than most, large enough to not be too rural; a teenager has two options on Saturday night - see a movie or get laid. Stars Hollow is the kind of town where if you shoplift and get caught, the owner will give you a serious talking to, call your parents, and decide on a punishment together that would give you enough community service hours to win a scholarship. It is altogether the type of town that you'd get talked about in, and Rory Gilmore and Jess Mariano are no exception.

The two are more often than not the topic of some Sunday brunch or coffee chat or casual lunch; maybe a Garden Society meeting or any conversation with Miss Patty. Photos of the two were snapped clandestinely for the Stars Hollow Gazette gossip column, and they are observed by at least one or two interested spectators as they wander through the streets chatting. This is not always the case; after all, they're not celebrities. They're just.....a constant object of interest. 

Inside Doose's Market, a graying man in a cardigan sweater and a flamboyant, rather hefty middle-aged madam in a colorful, flowing ensemble converse with gusto. It's cool outside, and slightly cloudy, but bursts of sunshine peek out and flash over the green lawns and orangey gold trees. The air is dry and breezy, a typical fall day, ruffling the gauzy edges of skirts and sending colorful leaf corpses into a frenzy over the pumpkin-decorated streets.

The look on their faces is hungry and conniving, although the lady feigns great disinterest when she sees an available male walking by. The older man rolls his eyes and commences.

"Patty, I'm telling you. There's something absolutely disconcerting about that relationship! I don't believe a moment of what she says. Just friends my foot, I say," grimaces the man, watching the two figures as they amble by on the sidewalk, talking animatedly.

"Your lettuce is fabulous, Taylor," says the woman absently.

"Oh, for Chrissake! Did you hear a word I said?"

"Yes, and I think you're one step short of instating your own communist chapter with a secret police. People have the right to live their lives in peace, you know, without someone tracking their movements," replies the lady, feeling plums with a little more ardor than pleased the storeowner. 

"I'm not tracking their movements, I'm just keeping one eye open, and stop feeling those plums as though they were one of your male victims," mutters the man.

"I keep an eye open, and, do I ever see....." grins the woman, watching with delight as the little beady eyed man goes into a frenzy.

"Now Patty, I'm telling you! If there's anything, you must tell me! Come on.......one free soda?"

"Are you bribing me?" asks the diva, delighted with herself and hardly disguising it.

"Take it however you want," pleads the man.

Without waiting one more second, the be-flowered bejeweled woman with the Birkenstock sandals pounces.

"You would not believe the scandal surrounding those two! Now, you thought Rory and Dean standing by a tree kissing for twenty minutes was bad. Well, with those two, it's a mighty different story; they're sly as foxes and secretive too," she begins with relish.

"Yes, yes, continue," says the man impatiently.

"Well, it seems to me, despite her mother's mandate that they be just friends for now, they are forever found in the same place. But he's a slick one, and not a good one either....I take it......"

"I heard they were fooling around in Luke's kitchen, trying to cook up some mess......" Taylor whispers, sliding an eye towards the nearest customer.

"Whipped cream and strawberries, no doubt" snorts the lady, chuckling.

"Patty, don't be vile," grimaces the man.

"My third husband used to love it when I filled up the bathtub with them. He preferred some chocolate syrup on top too......"

"Patty!"

"All right, don't get your knickers in a knot. What's worse, some of those books they pass back and forth...."

"Not Anais Nin!"

"Well, not yet," says the woman, her tone seeming slightly disappointed.

"Well then?"

"e.e. cummings.........you know he lived in whorehouses in Paris?" exclaims the woman mysteriously.

"Scandal!"

"Some of his material is on my favorites....."

"That I don't doubt," says the man rather sourly.

"There was Kate Chopin, _The Awakening_," the woman recounts carefully.

"Not a good sign."

"Some claim to have seen a van Goethe, but I doubt it of Rory. I wouldn't put a Marquis de Sade below Jess, maybe _Juliette_?"

"My God!" the man blanches.

"Yes, and Mary McCarthy and _Madame Bovary_ and the list....well, the list just extends!"

"I'm shocked. Plus, those poets are always scandalous too," Taylor grumbles.

"An indecent bunch. But here's the piece de resistance; rumor reached me that Kirk swore he saw Jess give Rory a copy of _Lolita_!"

"My God! They're making love with books!" gasps the man, hands gesturing emptily in the air.

"I'm perfectly jealous," murmurs Miss Patty, eliciting a glare from Taylor.

"You're perfectly insane," mutters the storeowner. 

"I wouldn't mind a nice piece of what she's got there," giggles the eccentric lady, popping a strawberry from the bin.

"Oh Patty you disgust me. Someone should warn Lorelai."

The woman curiously says nothing, just turns and looks out the window, eyes focusing on a girl and boy standing by the gazebo. 

The wind is ruffling Rory's hair, sending it dancing around her face; flashes of brilliant, very late afternoon sunshine illuminate the air around her in an almost curious, untamed mood. The sky is dark blue and moody, a hint of a storm in the air, deep navy clouds rolling in the distance toward the painted gold light that lay in a sort of holy radiance upon everything. He is standing opposite from her, leaning, or rather slouching, against the gazebo wall in a relaxed, typical manner. He watches her mouth as she speaks, her eyes, her hands as they dance in the air accompanying her words like butterfly wings. She is sweet and whole and not very breakable; he's amused and somewhat in awe of her uniqueness, her innocence. She thinks when she dials zero the operator knows her, because she called her 'hon' once. In the past she has asked him if she were allowed to take food on a subway in New York.

Jess is rather complementary to her sweetly sarcastic and dryly humorous nature; he is a boy for whom the verbal thing "comes and goes", but never comes as much as for her. Seemingly aggravated by life and by people in general, he only relents to her ceaseless wit and harmless questionings. Not even she can prod and plead with him to change something without receiving some caustic remarks, but towards her, they're always softened by a grin and a look which imparts all the mysteries of the world between them. They share knowing smiles and a seemingly superior level of enlightenment which can be very intimidating to the average person that approached them.

They are the kind of boy and girl that when placed across the dinner table would make a conscious effort to avoid each other's eyes for the fear of being too obvious, too transparent. Sooner or later though, they would accidentally make eye contact; and then, he would ask her to pass the salt, and everyone would be watching and would know that what he meant is 'I love you'. Then, she would blanch, he would look away, and the moment would be over, leaving them both wondering where their plans had failed.

He looks at the sky, as Miss Patty watches silently from behind the glass that obliterates sound. The woman's eyes follow the pair....thinking......dreaming in a wistful cadence.......remembering the sound of someone's voice on a cool fall night, someone with eyes that she still remembers from so long ago.

All of us have a memory like that.

By the gazebo, the wind is picking up.

Her eyes are moody blue with exhilaration; they glint fiercely in the sunshine, picking up the excitement of the rising storm. He's standing up now, looking upwards, analyzing.

"Wow. I think it's about to unload," he notes, his brow wrinkled. The girl nods in agreement, enthusiastic.

"I love it! I love this part right before it storms..." she grins, then desperately clutches at her uniform skirt as it flies up under a gust of wind.

"Got the Seven Year Itch?" he laughs, as she races inside the gazebo, flushed, sitting down and tucking in her skirt like a school girl caught in the act.

"Well, there's no subway grates in Stars Hollow, a girl's gotta make the best of what she's got," she quips with a grimace. "I didn't flash too much.....did I?"

"It was horrible. We all got the full monty."

"Jess!"

"Relax. I don't think anyone saw it anyway......you know, unlike Monroe, you don't need to flash a little leg to become an idol. Somehow I've come under the impression you sort of already are around here."

The girl shakes her head modestly.

"Whatever, me? Be serious. Now my mom, on the other hand........she's full of charm. She has a way with people."

"Yeah, I could tell that about her right off the bat. I tell you, she got me so quick..."

"Could you be anymore sarcastic?" the girl interrupts, a shadow passing over her features.

"I don't know, could she be anymore sweet to me?" says the boy, unapologetic this time. He moves through the gazebo restlessly, as though the strong wind stirs some sort of primal instinct in him. Turning away from her, he rests both hands on the posts in the entrance of the gazebo. His expression is slightly distant, as though he is really in the center of the storm and his body is just a shell left behind. He feels the wind in his bones, and it makes him edgy. 

She notes this fact with some sort of curious pleasure; it shows her another side, just like the shadows and lights flittering around them as the trees heave, scattering dry rain of red and gold leaves. She studies him with a hidden smile, a shy inspection from under concealed lashes. She likes the way his shoulders are broad and steel under the blue of the rough jacket with the perpetually askew collar. It covertly displays appearance of hidden strength wanting of unveiling. She's seen him in a fight, and likes what he's capable of doing. Needless to say, the breakup with Dean was rather disastrous; the collision resulted in a few very damaged knuckles and a bruised rib to Jess, but Dean, Dean's face was a pulpy mess. She had refused to speak to Jess for a week, although it had been self defense.........that was the only time Jess refused to apologize. Inside, she had known Jess was right. She had to decide where her loyalties lay.

Her eyes wander down from the shoulders to the back pockets of the rough Levi's. She grins; truly her mother's daughter.

She's still watching him from the bench as he suddenly turns around.

"Hey, let's not talk about it. I've already forgotten it," she says, willing to restore the peace, and averting her eyes carefully. "It's gone from my mind,"

"Yeah, you get distracted easily," he grins, a sneaky smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, under a pretense of innocence.

"I saw you checking out my ass," Jess sighs with an air of feigned self-importance and boredom that gives her no choice but to release the smile she's trying to hide.

"Should I even try to defend myself on that charge?" she glares, earning a laugh from him. He's suddenly in a playful mood.

"Nah, I think we're pretty much even considering that skirt incident back there."

"Oy, I think I feel violated....." she sighs, and shakes her head.

She bites her lip and smiles a tiny smile, wondering exactly if she's on his mind. She's getting the restless urge to kiss him senseless. She blames it mentally on the weather.

"So, one more year to go............" she wonders out loud, almost expecting his next reply. It never fails to delight her.

"Is that a small talk starter?" he grimaces, turning more into a smile.

"You know, I don't know why I put up with you." she frowns, and crosses her arms, maybe just to keep out the chill of the wind.

"Because I make your .....uh.....palms tingle."

"Lame."

"Forgive me," he rolls his eyes. "Um, heart race. No, heart pound, blood race. I give you chills. Still not it?"

"Not by a long shot," she grins.

"Okay, how bout....I make your toes curl."

"Like the sight of hair in my kitchen drain. Anything else?"

The dark haired boy studies her with an amused, comfortable smile.

"I dunno. I make you dizzy? I make your legs shake?"

Silence. 

He watches her out of the corner of his eye, restless and crazy just to kiss her. He's too well aware he can't here. She just.....wouldn't .....allow it......

"Conversation officially killed, call in CSI," she replies tersely after a minute pause in which both of them think thoughts that leave their backs a little stiffer and their mouths a little drier. She reprimands her mind which stubbornly wandered back to the outline of those shoulders. Her hands want to know the contours of the shifting muscle and warm skin on them; she sits on the offenders, tucking in the edges of the skirt.

She knows she should have dispelled his easy comment with another sarcastic barb. But the game ran short when her mind wandered, and when she failed to play by the rules. She was the good one, the one that always became disgusted at that kind of thing. She'd forgotten for a second, and he knew it.

Chastising herself, she turned to him in a softer tone.

"It's because you give me free coffee, you silly, deluded man. And all this time you thought I enjoyed your company."

He accepts her disguised answer and thanks her silently for the affirmation she gave him with his eyes. She nods.

The storm is taking a turn; the sunshine which flitted so madly against the dazzling green and navy blue now has disappeared. The air is calm, with the threat of lightning.

"What did you do with that copy of _Lolita_?"

"Gave it to my mom. She likes scandals. It was terrible of you to set up the gossip chain, and you know it. For Chrissake, Jess, can you torture these people a little more? I mean, they're the ones who put up the Rory Curtain..........they're already convinced you're well on your way to corrupting this town. I bet you an ice cream cone that Taylor's going to bring up the banishment of _Lolita _from town establishments at the next Town Meeting."

" I have no doubt, but I'll bet anyway. I have some loose cash around."

"Where from?" asks the girl curiously, and is dissatisfied with the shrug he gives her.

"Remember the weekend I went to New York?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he responds simply, and smiles.

She waits for him to continue.

"That explains it," she says, a little cross. "Confess, sinner."

"I helped some Boy Scouts get their City Navigating patches."

"Really? How much?" she asks, rolling her eyes.

"$800," he grins, grabbing the edge of the roof at the entrance and swinging before dropping to his feet. He began pacing again.

"Jess!" she glares, and crosses her arms.

"I just called up some old debts."

"You're still lying," she accuses, and sighs impatiently at the crooked grin as is resurfaces.

"I'm a man of mystery," he says flippantly, as she stands up and marches toward him. They stand face to face, as she vehemently stares him down. 

"God I want to kiss you," he suddenly says.

"Nice try. Tell me where you got the money," Rory says evenly, her eyes pinning him.

His face suddenly turns expressionless; she can see the muscles in his jaw harden quickly, and his eyes chill to hers.

She is very slightly disconcerted, but not really frightened; respectfully, she steps back and says nothing more, upset. She turns around.

Outside, the clouds have closed overhead, pulling the stormy gray sky into a tight swirl of shades of charcoal. The wind is screaming, then, quiet to a strange standstill. The air smells electric, the little hairs on the back of his neck making their presence known. The sound of thunder stills the air.

He comes towards her, standing too close behind her, close enough for her to smell the distant scent of cologne and a faint hint of cigarette smoke. It's his scent, and he knows her palms slowly clench into fists for a second whenever she comes near it. She likes the taste of it.

"Hey," he says, rough, soft.

Behind him, a rustle in the tree which looks black and bare against the gray. The wind is barely breathing.

"Jess," she says calmly. "I can't have you do it again. You can't haul me into this."

"I'm not hauling you into anything," he answers. She can feel him standing so close, his words fall against her neck and slide into her hair.

She turns around, furious.

"You hauled me into you! So that means, whatever you're in, I get pulled into too!"

The clouds are fast; a wail comes from the wind, then, more stillness in the silence between the two figures.

In the window of Doose's, a certain dance teacher finally comes to the register with her purchases. She watches the tense couple curiously.

Raindrops.

One, then two. Three. Four. Fivesix. Seveneightnineten.....oh eleven, too quick too fast, then,..............

It's raining. Hard.

Inside the gazebo, the two figures are still in their tense, frozen positions.

"I am not planning to get you involved in any way, Rory," the boy says in a low, calm voice.

She won't be still, she won't let it go. Fire sparks in her eyes like the lightning streaking through the sky.

"I'm involved, you idiot! I care what happens to you! You were doing so much better, now this? I know and you know that however you got that money it wasn't legal, and I don't care if I sound like small town girl who knows nothing and who's spazzing out and I'm spazzing out........because.....I love you!"

They stand in silence amidst the heavy pouring rain outside the gazebo.

Her face turns from anger and misery to sudden, still surprise. Wide eyed, they stare at each other.

His mouth opens and closes, with no sound.

"Say something....." she whispers, and her face crumbles. Tears rain down her cheeks. Desperately, she spins and flees.

The dance teacher is still watching; she's joined by the cardigan wearing tyrant in the window, as people slowly drift towards it. They're buzzing, yet silent, speculative and quiet with curiosity.

It takes a split second for him to reach.

"Rory!"

He reaches her amid the torrential sheets of rain that fall on their shoulders, crushing them; he grabs her arms, she swings around unwillingly, her face an angry, confused, miserable mask. Rain courses down her lips and cheeks in rivulets, her honest blue eyes brilliant in the stormy light, full of tears.

She's lost within his arms in a moment, unable and unwilling to resist; he crushes her to his chest, her hands lovingly stroking his hair, his face, his shoulders, over and over again.

"Shh...." she says. "Shush. Just be quiet."

He won't be.

He buries his head in her hair, breathing hard, and she feels something warm slide against her neck. Another drop. She knows it's not rain.

"Rory, I love you I'm sorry, please, don't cry, I love you-"

"Shh.......she interrupts, gently stroking his neck. He abruptly pulls back. She looks at him with surprised eyes.

Then they're kissing. Rain on their lips, clinging to his eyelashes, his cold eyes melting, his cold hands warming. She leans against him, brushing back wet hair out of her eyes in strands; they're grinning against each other's mouth, then laughing all of a sudden.

"I can't believe, Oh God," she gasps, and he kisses her so hard her saddle-shoe-navy-tights long legs almost buckle.

"Jess, I'm such an idiot," she whispers between clashes.

"I like the way that sounds. Say it again." he murmurs, and kisses her again, meeting fierce, soft, intoxicating resistance in her lips.

"I'm such an idiot."

"No, not that part, you idiot. The other thing."

"I love you. Love you love you love-"

His mouth takes the words from hers and tastes them; they're sweeter than they've ever been before.

She gasps for another breath, inhaling rain. He kisses her mouth, her eyelids, her cheekbones, drinks the raindrops running down her neck, her earlobes......

"Hey, hey!" she interrupts sharply, and they both turn, shocked.

Hands and faces fog up the entire window of Luke's Diner and Doose's Market and every place people have sought refuge.........

"So much for our cover," groans Rory, and looks back at him.

He grins, and raises one eyebrow.

"We should charge them for this."

"You barricade the doors, I'll set up the cash boxes. One at a time."

They laugh, and kiss again, the world forgotten.

It's November. The chilly rain washes over the town, over the two figures still standing in it, over the world. In the window, Miss Patty sighs and turns away from Taylor's rants, and smiles.


	3. Winter

Well, in true fashion, if you're going to have four defining moments in a relationship, this would probably one of them. The sex question is inevitable but I feel I've handled it delicately and in a non-smutty (weeeeellllllllll……..) way. So here's a little sweet piece…….winter……….

Enjoy,

Luce.

It's winter.

The sidewalks crackle with ice, as the snow falls softly over the little town; tiny, glowing lights illuminate the entire town, turning it into a fairytale land. Personally, he doesn't think much of it. It's rather nauseating to him. She's used to it, having seen it all her life, but she can never get over how beautiful it looks at night. The snow shines pale on the lawns and shrubs and eaves, clinging, softly flying through the air like a giant, quiet aftermath of a pillow fight.

"Remember when you jumped in the sleigh last year?" she smiles, as they saunter down the main street, admiring, or despising, in Jess's case, the display.

"Sure. I asked you what you and Dean talked about. You know, to this day, I'm still curious."

"You used the word pugilistic," she recalls, grinning. "I wouldn't have shown it, but it set off a whole process in my head."

"Non pugilistic. And I knew it did. See, I'm really this evil plotter that's been setting tiny traps for you for a year now. I'm just waiting to reel you in little by little, to your doom," he explains casually, batting at a snowflake. She laughs.

"And what doom would that be?"

"Maybe I'm luring you into the lurid underworld of Stars Hollow," he jokes, loving the way her mouth spreads over the pearly row that tempts him.

"You are the lurid underworld of Stars Hollow, Jess," she groans, with a roll of her eyes. "Although I've had my doubts about Kirk for a while, and you know how Miss Patty gets when she hits the hooch."

"Don't remind me, I was more scared for my life at that party then I've ever been in New York," he mutters, swiping a handful and making a snowball. He searches for a target.

"Better than all my other birthdays, trust me. I don't think I mentioned the arrested clown."

"As much as I'm dying to hear that one......."

She swats him, a handful of powdery snow flying through the air.

His mischievous smile and glittering eye terrify her instantly.

"Nooooo! Jess, I swear if you even-"

But the words are too late. She's off her feet and next to him in a snow bank before she can catch her breath. Snowflakes are caught in her hair and eyelashes and slipping down her neck. She struggles and shrieks, trying to get up. Handfuls of snow fly back and forth as laughter floats into the air like the chime of bells......dancing through the night...........

"You started it," is his only explanation, spoken through gasps and a mouthful of snow.

"Not even!" she retorts, as she builds a snowman around him.

"I'm soaked down to the bone," he groans, rolling into the shoveled sidewalk, abandoning the snow bank of their battle. Her hand pulls him back.

She rolls on top and traps him shyly into a small world of her; her frostbit lips, her snowflake eyes, her cool, scented hair dusting across his cheek lightly. Her mouth is warm on his. 

He crushes her into the snow, burying her, body heat seeping, melting. His cold hands meet hers as he guides them inside his jacket, towards the warmth of his chest.

"You're hypothermic," he murmurs, lost inside her, gone.

"Your heart is speeding," she says innocently, her hands buried under the layers. He envelops her in his arms softly as she sprawls next to him in the new snow.

She breaks the spell.

"We should go," she blinks, sitting up suddenly. She shakes the snow out of her hair; he bites his lower lip. 

"Where to?"

She looks lost at the question.

"Uh, I mean, my mom's not getting home tonight from Boston; her and dad are settling some stuff about money and Sherry and junk. But since 95 is blocked......"

He waits for her to decide where she's going with it.

"I don't want to .....exactly disobey. My mom trusts me....and......"

"It's alright," he smiles, reassuringly. "Walk you home?"

She's not too particularly proud or happy of her choice. He wouldn't be presumptuous enough to assume she wanted otherwise, but he finds some sort of satisfaction in knowing that Rory Gilmore is not as good as she looks.

They amble towards the house, under the silvery streetlights. Gravel crunches under their feet in the driveway.

They pause on the front porch, looking at the floor, at their hands.

"You wanna come in for a little?" she says, and her voice is so soft he can barely hear it. She avoids his eyes.

"No," he answers, solemnly.

"Bullshit," slides out the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, I know, I'm just trying to help you out" he says, his grin breaking out as he enters.

Rory closes the door carefully behind her, looking for anyone who might have seen; Babette and Morey's is dark, and the street is deserted. Mentally scolding herself for her paranoia, she kicks off her shoes and proceeds into the living room. 

He's standing in the kitchen, setting some water to boil on the stove; a few hot chocolate packets are scattered on the counter. 

"I'm gonna...go....put on a dry....some dry stuff. Clothes. Change," she smiles a little apprehensively, and he nods. He's well aware she's nervous, or unsure, or thinking about something; he doesn't exactly know what, but he has a pretty good guess.

She piles her wet clothes on the floor, and calls out through the semi-open door.

"So, what will it be? Pink cakes, blue bunnies, or clouds?"

"I'll take...uh....pink cakes for 200, Alex."

"These are my pajama choices, Jess."

This elicits a laugh from the figure in the kitchen, who's crumbling chocolate pieces in the simmering pot.

"Pink cakes because you're sweet." he replies, delivering with finesse.

"Nice line. So what would clouds be?"

"Because you're fluffy?"

"That's what I thought. I don't even want to know what blue bunnies would come to," says the girl dryly, emerging clad in the little girl pajamas that fold softly under her feet, following the curve of her legs, tied securely at the waist. He peeks surreptitiously at the slim expanse of stomach that comes into view as she raises her arms to secure her damp hair in a ponytail. She pads over the carpet silently towards him, leaning her chin on his shoulder on tiptoes.

"Mmm...death by chocolate. Pour me a cup." she requests, and he complies, wedging a soft piece of chocolate as garnish on the side of the mug.

"Gross," she giggles, and commences to eat it and lick the edge of the mug. He watches her until she realizes he's watching, then abruptly stops.

Silence.

The house is warm and quiet, with a few lamps emanating a peaceful glow among the shadows. Outside, snow drifts placidly in the dark and across the windowsills; the two figures in the darkly lit kitchen stand in beautiful profile. He feels as though he's painted into a picture, a dream. 

"Are you still wet?" she breaks in abruptly.

"Just my shirt around the neck, and my socks," he suddenly breathes in relief, understanding that she's trying to break the spell. The tension in the air is palpable; the muted electricity between the two is tangible. He doesn't want this to be so hard, so stressful. It's all he can do to hold back from pinning her to the kitchen counter and sliding his hands under the loose pajama top. She knows this.

"Can I dry some of my stuff?"

"Sure," she cuts suddenly, abruptly breaking off the end of his sentence. "You know where the laundry room is."

He nods, and heads down the hall. He throws his socks in, and sees her shadow then move into the end of the hallway; he peels his shirt off a little slower, out of spite. She stands there, at the end of the hall, the light behind her, holding her mug. She says nothing.

"Should only take a few minutes," he remarks, checking his watch.

He walks past her and into the kitchen, and casually pours himself a mug. 

She stands in the hallway, eyes downcast, afraid to turn around and enter the room. His frame is burned into her memory; the broad, sculpted slope of his shoulders, the lean stomach, the curving sinew on his arms. Her cheeks are faintly red, her eyes unseeing. She bites her lip hard. 

She likes the way the jeans cradle his narrow hips, low slung barely above the angle of his hip bone, then curve and slouch down to his legs, baggy around the ankles. She likes the way the edge of white elastic with blue lines peeks out from above the belt loops, the words Ralph Lauren distinct in blue when he moves. She likes the way the white material hugs and contrasts the smooth olive skin shifting over the lean curve of his lower back. She follows his spine up to his neck, to the edge of his thick, dark hair standing up in unruly order over his head. It makes her want to kiss his ears.

The phone rings.

She feels an immense relief, freed from the burden of her thoughts for a moment as she races to pick up on the third ring.

"Hey babe," her mother's voice drifts over the line. "How's it going?"

"Mom," she breathes, relieved. "Good. How's Boston?"

"Full of baked beans and bad traffic. You all alone?" quips her mother, but Rory can hear the cautious tone of her voice as she asks the last question.

"Yes," says Rory, Rory Gilmore. Her first official lie of the evening. "Bored to death without you. You know it snowed......"

"No! Without me....." groans Lorelai.

"The weather often manages without you. It's always harder, but, I believe it double crossed you this time. Will you break partnership?"

"Hah. I can't believe it snowed and I wasn't there!"

"Well, there's snow in Boston........" laughs Rory, mind racing ahead worriedly.

"It's the polluted kind and nothing fabulous happened in it. This weekend's turning out....oh, never mind."

"Tell me!"

"Rory, you won't believe this," smiles Lorelai into the phone. "Sherry and your dad are divorcing. She's met another man, and is in love with him, and wants to take the baby and marry him."

Rory lets out a gasp, then, shocked silence.

"I knew you sounded too happy. You got some this weekend, didn't you."

"Not some. A lot. Rory, me and your father came together to discuss some stuff. Instead, I ended up with a lot more than I bargained for."

"Next time, bargain a little wiser and don't settle so quick," says the girl, her voice a little sad.

"What's wrong babe?" her mom's voice crackles over the line.

"Nothing, Mom, I'm glad. I'm just so tired of the confusion with Dad, that's all. It's so up and down......are you coming home tomorrow morning? I miss you," the girl carefully intoned, formulating the right words.

"I'll try by tomorrow afternoon, alright? We have a snowman contest to win. Try to have a ball without me, as hard as I know it will be," the older woman laughed. Her voice suddenly became deadly serious. "Rory?"

"Yes," the girl says fearfully.

"I know Jess will be with you sometime. Please remember everything I told you."

The younger Gilmore shudders at her mom's intuition, and calms herself, her tone light.

"Mom, you don't have to worry," she smiles, a little sick.

"Don't give me reason to," the elder Lorelai says solemnly, her voice static.

"I won't."

"Alright, night babe."

"Night."

She slowly hangs up the phone, her mood slightly quelled by the phone call. As soon as she enters the kitchen, however, it is dead, forgotten, and non existent. The phone was never invented. Her breath sharply stops and resumes at the sight of him, slouching against the counter, drinking his hot chocolate and staring out the dark window at the falling snow. 

She navigates cautiously around him, and smiles lightly. Her hands scream out to touch him. Just once. She brushes by him nervously, on her way to the fridge. His arm stops her short, across her stomach, blocking her way. Slowly, he pulls her in. She's looking down and not saying anything; snapping her head up, she looks at the wall behind him, his mouth, his hair, the cabinets, anywhere else but his eyes. Closer and closer he pulls her, and she seems to have lost the will to resist.

He tilts his head and kisses the side of her neck. Her eyes glow iridescent blue in the gold lamplight. They are trapped in a world of a few inches of shadows and skin and hair, eyes fluttering closed.

"Let me kiss you," he whispers, a plea, a command.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," she quickly blurts out, hands clenching into fists, tense.

"I didn't ask if it would be," he counters, patient. "Let me kiss you."

"I can't," she almost wails, but it comes out as a sight instead.

"Why?"

"Because!" she cries softly. "Because."

"I wish you'd expound on that," he sighs, and softly encircles her waist with his arm. His hand slides over the edge of smooth skin and pink fabric, his broad palm flat. He makes a circle around her belly button with his finger, almost playfully.

"Stop," she says, unconvincingly. His finger stops tracing circles.

"Stop what?" he asks, knowing too well. "Rory, look at me. Look at my eyes. Eye contact. C'mon," he pleads gently, turning her face towards him. Reluctantly she complies, eyes still darting.

"Would I ever do anything you wouldn't want me to?" he says softly, and she looks at him with wide eyes. After a second, she shakes her head, side to side, firmly. He smiles, and releases her from his close hold. She looks at the floor fiercely. He picks up the hot chocolate, and takes another drink.

"What if I do something I wouldn't want me to do? How would you know? Here we are, playing around with this. I can't believe it!" she suddenly bursts out, eliciting a shocked look from him.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, his voice strange.

"I want to make love to you, Mariano!" she suddenly explodes, then, clamps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes wide with shock, she stands frozen to the spot. Her legs feel suddenly weak and helpless.

He almost chokes.

Setting down the cup, he stands still and quiet, features completely motionless. For the first time in his life, he feels completely useless. He's stunned, his mind a blank, his emotions white noise. Her hand suddenly drops from her mouth, and she starts backing away slowly.

"Oh God Jess please don't, ignore, ok, alright, forget everything please forget everything I said I don't, didn't mean to say that and I didn't mean to tell you something like that I can't believe-"

"Rory, stop! You're losing it on me. Deep brea-"

"No!" she interrupts, her eyes suddenly shimmering with liquid. "Please just forget it! Blank it out of your mind! Slip on the front stairs and have a concussion so you can't remember anything!"

"I know you didn't mean that."

"Oh, now you can read my mind?"

"Don't."

"Don't what?" 

"Make this a fight." he says quietly, looking away.

"I just told you I want to make love to you and we're still standing here talking," she sighs, now calm, a note of wonderment in her voice.

"Yes," he replies impatiently. "This is our way. We talk about everything, it's the way we do things. It's the way we always did things, the way we are. If you say I want to make love to you, I say, are you sure. And why, and now? And then later, how, but that's another issue," he rambles, unconscious of the small smile creeping onto her lips.

"You're rambling. Are you nervous?" Rory grins, but the grin drops when she sees his face.

"Rory, I don't want to be the first case of mob lynching above the Mason Dixon."

"Are you saying you're scared?" she asks incredulously.

"I'm saying I want you to think this through."

"I haven't been thinking since you took your shirt off," she says demurely. 

"Thanks."

"Sure."

"Hey, subject at hand. Can we finish quicker so I can kiss you?" Jess replies impatiently.

"Hey, aren't you the reasonable conversationalist? What's with the kissing stuff?" mocks Rory, frustratedly twisting her hair.

"You're determined to make this hard, aren't you. Look, here we are, and I'm trying to say that this will change things between you and people. I don't care if I get lynched, but I care if you and…..you know……."

"My mom?" she asks softly, amazed. "Since when do you care?"

"Since when I figured out how important it was. How important she is. She's……I….don't know. I want you two to be ok."

"You changed," is her loving accusation, tinged with wonderment. "I never thought you would."

"Don't worry, we still don't like each other. Sometimes."

"Hah."

"Hah what?" he glares at her teasing smile.

"I knew you two would figure it out someday. You're freakin' clones."

"Sure," he says sarcastically, but not disbelieving.

"Hey, were we discussing something else?" Rory suddenly comments, her voice casual.

"Me making love to you. Specifically if it's a good idea. Regardless of whether it's a good idea. I'll never believe you actually said that outloud; you don't know how long I've waited."

"How long?" she says shyly, half teasing.

"Since I met you, in a typical guy way. Since you kissed me at the wedding, even more. But since I told you I love you, differently."

"Different how?"  she probes, sensing his lack of words. He stays silent for a little bit.

"I can't explain it. It's more, but it's not the same. I'd do anything for you," he concludes gravely, and looks away. She stands in still silence.

"It's my choice, isn't it," she questions, her mouth still wandering over the words she dared not say outloud.

"I'll wait for as long as you want," he replies, not daring to look at her in the eyes. His heartbeats are measured.  

"God." she wails, as she backs away, and turns to flee. He rushes, knowing he has to stop her.

In a split second he has her against the hallway wall, a few tears damp on her cheeks, her mouth, as she furiously matches his hips to her, pressing against the unyielding wall that is his body. He kisses her hard, teeth clashing, lips demanding, desperate, and she matches his frantic need with her own equally frantic want. Mouths open, hands seeking, she travels the soft skin and hard curves of his torso, hungry; her small hands leave tiny fingerprints in the heaving muscles of his back, his skin where she grasps hard, unwilling to let go. His love is finally free, sweetly violet; she moans under the steel that traps her, under the magic of his hands which traverse hurriedly up her sides, finally trespassing too far.

With a gasp, she finally comes to her senses, breaking free from the dizzy spell; she kisses him hard, and pushes him away, his lips still seeking, crushing hers. With one last kiss she manages to wrench herself away. Waking up, Jess draws back quickly, and slams against the opposite wall in the small hallway. Simultaneously, they slide down the floor, sitting against the wall on opposite sides. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, groaning silently. She puts her face in her hands to hide the insane grin that covers it.

"God, I am so sorry," he says after a while, in the silence enveloping them.

"It's my fault." she replies sadly, quietly.

"I knew we'd have to have this conversation one day," he pondered quietly, almost to himself.

"I know it's up to me," the girl explained, and he nodded in agreement. "But so help me God, Jess, if you get me started how can I possibly stop?"

He tries to hide the little smile that wants to come to the surface. She grins a sort of embarrassed but guilty grin, and when their eyes meet, they both stifle the urge to break out in smiles.

"What are you smiling for?" she grimaces, and goes back to studying her pajamas.

"Come here to my side of the hallway and I'll show you." he leers, cocking one eyebrow

"Nice try."

"It was worth it. God, Rory. The things you do to me," he says, his face softening into a disbelieving smile. He sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

"What did I do? Did I hurt you?" she asks innocently, and he grins to himself privately, deciding to spare her.

"Oh, maybe just a busted lip," he lies, shifting uncomfortably. He wonders how long he'll have to sit.

He studies her as she curls her knees up to her chest, brown hair softly falling in her face, her pink toenails and small feet tucked innocently into the deep carpeting. 

He watches her lovingly as she hangs her head, and he knows she's thinking hard, desperate thoughts. Jess is aware of what he wants, but with a sigh, he hopes she..........well, he doesn't know what he hopes. Her head slowly raises up; her eyes glow dim with love light as she pulls forward on her knees and crawls toward him, between his legs, and leans forward.

The kiss is sweet and long, and they feel the world slipping away from them.

She's made her choice.

They help each other up, and silently head into her room. 

He closes the door, although he doesn't know why; he pulls her in, and kisses her softly to distract her, as his fingers undo the buttons on the pajama top, one by one. His kisses are slow, measured, building a searing flame in her stomach, sliding down her legs. He softly presses her against her desk, watching her silent reaction, carefully tuned to her every nervous motion.

"You're good at this. I don't want to know how, but you are," she breathed out between kisses.

"At what?" he smiles.

"This whole seduce the girl thing."

"Hmm," is his only muffled reply, silenced by her lips. The only sound is the rustle of cloth against skin. Her hands explore, tracing him, shyly gliding.

The pajama top falls to the floor as it slides off her arms, and she stands, wordless before him.

He, for the first time, is also left with nothing to say.

"God, Rory" he manages, the words struggling out of his throat dryly. With a movement that seems almost reverent, his hands slide over the shadows on her bare skin. She trembles slightly under his touch, letting him understand this is new territory.

Her hands wander to the edge of his jeans as he presses her against him for the first time. Skin to skin, curves to hard, flat muscle, slender arms around his neck. The electricity runs like melted quicksilver in their veins, their skin prickles and wakes at the tentative contact which becomes deeper. His hands study the arch of her bare back, his mouth laying a kiss on her collarbone as she lets her head tilt back. His kisses fall lower and lower, his hands contouring, redefining, his full attention focused on her torso until her back arches and she lets out a small sound between a sigh and a hum. His teeth place a nip that makes her startle and him smile.

He slowly moves backwards, till standing right by the bed. Sitting down, he pulls her forward, and she moves, unsure. His head rests against her stomach as he kisses the shifting muscles and tickles her bellybutton, eliciting a small giggle. His fingers deftly untie the pajama strings, and he places his hands inside the edges, sliding them down over her hips, letting them fall to the floor. Looking up at her, he notes her slightly intoxicated silence. He bends his head, and kisses the inside of her thigh, parting her legs, bringing her down. Her eyes are full of a soft confusion that wills him to continue. Her lips meet his, demanding. He reacts, stronger.

"Jess," she says softly. He loves the way she makes it sound. Her fingers reach for his jeans, and he guides them. He lays her out, brushing the hair back from her face. She looks a little scared.

"Alright so far?" he asks gently, and she nods, reassured. All he can focus on is the piercing blue of her eyes. Trusting, revealing, open, watching him.

Her small hands land on his hips, almost as though giving permission. 

In the hall, the clock chimes midnight.

Outside, the snow is thickly falling.


	4. Spring

Hey everyone, here's the last chapter. Thanks for sticking it out while I worked through this. I think….this might be my last literati attempt. I tried with another story, Open Road but it's not well received at all so I might forget it. But for everyone who ever reviewed, I love you from the bottom of my selfish little heart. This one's for you.

Luce

Disclaimer yada yada

Spring

She lays on the couch in the March cool house, frosted windowpanes, grey spring day hovering outside the windowpanes. His head is on her lap, and her fingertips slowly glide over the olive skin, his cheekbones, rigid and pronounced, his jaw, defiant. 

"Tiger tiger burning bright," she whispers, gazing into the enormous, dark, burning eyes. Her cheeks, red-tinted, make her own blue ones so pale and brilliant.

"What immortal hand or eye," he whispers back, his fingers grazing the soft cashmere of her sweater, listening to her breathing. Everything is so close, so intimate, it almost makes something in his throat hurt.

She is his now, her in her red woolen coat with it's clean lines, her with her shining masses of neat brown hair, with her wide eyes and such questions as he cannot answer.

Her legs are crossed, her hand is softly, gently, and very absently caressing him. Her eyes are lost somewhere in the scenery out the window.

She belongs to him less now then when she belonged to another.

He senses this, and swears softly.

Her eyes immediately snap to attention.

"What is it?"

Shaking his head, he sits up, looking for his coat.

"Jess!"

But he is gone, the door shutting behind him like the discharge of a gun. She sinks back into the couch, her guilty, fabulous mouth trembling. She knows she is betraying him, because even as she is touching him, she is dreaming of some other place where he does not belong, a place she'll soon be a part of. As hard as she tries to find a niche for him in her world, he no more belongs now then he did before she became his.

Yale, cocktail parties, shining wooden floors, Ketel 1 martinis. She has signed away her life to her grandparents already. It's too late to save her from what she will inevitably become.

On the bridge, leaves fall softly into the water. It is cool. She wraps her coat around her, her aristocratic hands folding in her lap, her ankles crossed as they dangle over the water. She looks into the lake, at the reflected sky, at the rippling surface, at the movement in the murky interior under her feet.

He sits next to her, faintly smoky and cedar fresh, carefully placing a thin volume between them. They kiss now, because in it's presence, they are equals again and all is forgotten at the excitement of such wondrous, secret compatibility. How many people in this world read Margaret Duras?

"Rory."

She smiles at his gentle tone.

"It's ok."

He breathes a sigh of relief, the disaster staved off for one more day.

Suddenly he wants to kiss her very much, and he pulls her head towards him with his capable hand and there are four people kissing slowly, them and the cool reflection in the lake that wavers unsteadily. Her long, marble fingertips curl in the air and uncurl, forgotten, as she tilts her head slowly in a reverie below his, curtains of hair falling down her back, pale face arched upward, held in his hands. He likes how her mouth is so red, like a strange version of Snow White. She is cold, only her mouth is warm and his thin lips fit perfectly between hers; he presses small, light, hesitant kisses on her dazed mouth slowly, the tip of his tongue barely daring to part her lips, where it meets hers and retreats in quick, electric shock. She seems to awake, putting her cold fingertips on her mouth and hesitating, then quickly drawing away. Her pearly skin tints quickly.

She turns huge, terrible eyes on him and her red mouth screams guilt.

"I do love you, you know, and I will never tell you again but all the same you might remember it," she says suddenly, her voice queer and stiff.

And she stands up, shaky and brave, and he stands up quickly too, his face incredulous and silent. He knows he should say it, tell her, admit it, but all the same he is so angry, so angry with her because she will desert him someday and he knows it.

"Rory…"

"Don't say anything!" she cries out, in that same strange tone. "Don't ruin it! Don't be angry with me, please don't!"

He grabs her arm.

"I'm not. Stop it."

"You are, and you'll hate me when I go. Jess, you'll call and I'll ramble for an hour like an idiot about what an awesome discussion we had in class on John Updike this morning and you'll hate me for it. My grandmother will fix me up with sons of sons of tycoons and you'll hate me for it."

"For what, having a grandmother and reading Updike?"

When put in that context, it seems a little ridiculous to her too. But she sees the faraway light in his eyes and she knows he is lying.

"You hated me yesterday. When you left. Jess, you knew what I was thinking. You knew-"

"Because I hate you doesn't mean I don't love you," he interrupts, leaving a long silence between them. He stares at the lake, at the brilliant leaves.

"I've never had the energy to hate anyone. I despise plenty of people. Love…hate…the proverbial thin line…."

She looks down at her feet, and up to him again, unsure how to answer, how to handle this wonderful, amazing, terrifying thing that has just happened. How glorious to hear him say it, to hear him say it when he knew he could have nothing from her.

He shrugs, exhausted. He never meant to say anything, but now it's too late.

It's evening. They're in the diner, in a far corner booth, heads bent close together; they look as though they're plotting and conspiring. He whispers inaudible things to her, as she tilts her head and her long lashes lower, hooding her eyes, lips curved in a secret lover's smile. The lights are off, and outside the golden twinkling lights of the town send faint beams through the blind, creating slants of golden light on their darkened faces.

"I'll take you to New York," he tells her. "We'll hunt out one of those old Upper East side apartments, shabby pre-war with wooden floors and huge, drafty windows and old bookshelves piled and piled with books. We'll haunt Central Park and look for Franny and Zooey."

"And write a lot of bad poetry and you'll smoke up the curtains and we'll live on Chinese takeout," adds, grinning.

He shakes his head. 

"Rory, Rory. Hey, maybe I'll open a diner and get Susanne Vega to write a song about it. It'll become one of those places where one night stands come to have breakfast and read their papers."

"I'll waitress and write for the New Yorker."

"Theres a dichotomy. Are you sure you don't want to try out Broadway? Everyone who comes to New York does. I think it's a rule."

"Don't be ridiculous. Can you see me dancing?"

"Mmm, you're right. It would be manslaughter. I remember when you came in the diner last fall with that huge white dress on and I thought maybe you'd gotten married…..then I heard the words fandance….."

"Will you forever mock me?!!"

She crosses her arms and retreats, and a brief interlude occurs where he persuades her to forgive him in a silent and very convincing manner. They separate rather rumpled and flushed. She giggles.

"Terrible boy."

He raises his eyebrows, shrugs, and eats a french fry in the dark.

It's morning. She rolls over, tangled in the sheets, somnolent and rosy in the rainy morning light. Her hand creeps over his sleeping body. She studies his face, a face that is not innocent even in it's sleep. It's restless, shadows of dreams moving under the surface and closed eyelids masking an infinite mystery. She knows no more about him then she did at the beginning of this.

There is faint stubble on his lean jaw and his hair is starting to curl a little at the neck. Her fingertips trace lightly the odd, twisted lips.

"Jess," she whispers. The words are so quiet, fervent, almost solemn. "Mine, you're mine and I love you I love you darling,"

A wan smile surfaces on her lips at the antiquated, strange words that flew out of her mouth so feverishly before she had even thought of them.

She sighed, and rolled over on the other side, hair splayed on the pillow like a sunflower.

His eyes still closed, a slow smile spread gently on his mouth but she did not see it.

She finished school and started packing for Europe. He disappeared one day.

He was gone, as she knew he would be. It had only been a matter of time. 

He wrote her letters that he never mailed, letters that choked and rushed and revealed and bared everything. It didn't matter. He was sure she knew it all along. She still knows it.


End file.
